The Crossing [60]
around the fort. The terror that had hovered over us all that long summer was lifted at last.
You may be sure that Cowan carried me back to the station. ``To think it was Davy that found it!'' he cried again and again, ``to think it was Davy found it!''
``And wasn't it me that said he could smell the divils,'' said Terence, as he circled around us in a mimic war dance. And when from the fort they saw us coming across the fields they opened the gates in astonishment, and on hearing the news gave themselves over to the wildest rejoicing. For the backwoodsmen were children of nature. Bill Cowan ran for the fiddle which he had carried so carefully over the mountain, and that night we had jigs and reels on the common while the big fellow played ``Billy of the Wild Woods'' and ``Jump Juba,'' with all his might, and the pine knots threw their fitful, red light on the wild scenes of merriment. I must have cut a queer little figure as I sat between Cowan and Tom watching the dance, for presently Colonel Clark came up to us, laughing in his quiet way.
``Davy,'' said he, ``there is another great man here who would like to see you,'' and led me away wondering. I went with him toward the gate, burning all over with pride at this attention, and beside a torch there a broad-shouldered figure was standing, at sight of whom I had a start of remembrance.
``Do you know who that is, Davy?'' said Colonel Clark.
``It's Mr. Daniel Boone,'' said I.
``By thunder,'' said Clark, ``I believe the boy IS a wizard,'' while Mr. Boone's broad mouth was creased into a smile, and there was a trace of astonishment, too, in his kindly eye.
``Mr. Boone came to my father's cabin on the Yadkin once,'' I said; ``he taught me to skin a deer.''
``Ay, that I did,'' exclaimed Mr. Boone, ``and I said ye'd make a woodsman sometime.''
Mr. Boone, it seemed, had come over from Boonesboro to consult with Colonel Clark on certain matters, and had but just arrived. But so modest was he that he would not let it be known that he was in the station, for fear of interrupting the pleasure. He was much the same as I had known him, only grown older and his reputation now increased to vastness. He and Clark sat on a door log talking for a long time on Kentucky matters, the strength of the forts, the prospect of new settlers that autumn, of the British policy, and finally of a journey which Colonel Clark was soon to make back to Virginia across the mountains. They seemed not to mind my presence. At length Colonel Clark turned to me with that quiet, jocose way he had when relaxed.
``Davy,'' said he, ``we'll see how much of a general you are. What would you do if a scoundrel named Hamilton far away at Detroit was bribing all the redskins he could find north of the Ohio to come down and scalp your men?''
``I'd go for Hamilton,'' I answered.
``By God!'' exclaimed Clark, striking Mr. Boone on the knee, ``that's what I'd do.''
CHAPTER XI
FRAGMENTARY
Mr. Boone's visit lasted but a day. I was a great deal with Colonel Clark in the few weeks that followed before his departure for Virginia. He held himself a little aloof (as a leader should) from the captains in the station, without seeming to offend them. But he had a fancy for James Ray and for me, and he often took me into the woods with him by day, and talked with me of an evening.
``I'm going away to Virginia, Davy,'' he said; ``will you not go with me? We'll see Williamsburg, and come back in the spring, and I'll have you a little rifle made.''
My look must have been wistful.
``I can't leave Polly Ann and Tom,'' I answered.
``Well,'' he said, ``I like that. Faith to your friends is a big equipment for life.''
``But why are you going?'' I asked.
``Because I love Kentucky best of all things in the world,'' he answered, smiling.
``And what are you going to do?'' I insisted.
``Ah,'' he said, ``that I can't tell even to you.''
``To catch Hamilton?'' I ventured at random.
He looked at me queerly.
``Would you go along, Davy?'' said he, laughing
You may be sure that Cowan carried me back to the station. ``To think it was Davy that found it!'' he cried again and again, ``to think it was Davy found it!''
``And wasn't it me that said he could smell the divils,'' said Terence, as he circled around us in a mimic war dance. And when from the fort they saw us coming across the fields they opened the gates in astonishment, and on hearing the news gave themselves over to the wildest rejoicing. For the backwoodsmen were children of nature. Bill Cowan ran for the fiddle which he had carried so carefully over the mountain, and that night we had jigs and reels on the common while the big fellow played ``Billy of the Wild Woods'' and ``Jump Juba,'' with all his might, and the pine knots threw their fitful, red light on the wild scenes of merriment. I must have cut a queer little figure as I sat between Cowan and Tom watching the dance, for presently Colonel Clark came up to us, laughing in his quiet way.
``Davy,'' said he, ``there is another great man here who would like to see you,'' and led me away wondering. I went with him toward the gate, burning all over with pride at this attention, and beside a torch there a broad-shouldered figure was standing, at sight of whom I had a start of remembrance.
``Do you know who that is, Davy?'' said Colonel Clark.
``It's Mr. Daniel Boone,'' said I.
``By thunder,'' said Clark, ``I believe the boy IS a wizard,'' while Mr. Boone's broad mouth was creased into a smile, and there was a trace of astonishment, too, in his kindly eye.
``Mr. Boone came to my father's cabin on the Yadkin once,'' I said; ``he taught me to skin a deer.''
``Ay, that I did,'' exclaimed Mr. Boone, ``and I said ye'd make a woodsman sometime.''
Mr. Boone, it seemed, had come over from Boonesboro to consult with Colonel Clark on certain matters, and had but just arrived. But so modest was he that he would not let it be known that he was in the station, for fear of interrupting the pleasure. He was much the same as I had known him, only grown older and his reputation now increased to vastness. He and Clark sat on a door log talking for a long time on Kentucky matters, the strength of the forts, the prospect of new settlers that autumn, of the British policy, and finally of a journey which Colonel Clark was soon to make back to Virginia across the mountains. They seemed not to mind my presence. At length Colonel Clark turned to me with that quiet, jocose way he had when relaxed.
``Davy,'' said he, ``we'll see how much of a general you are. What would you do if a scoundrel named Hamilton far away at Detroit was bribing all the redskins he could find north of the Ohio to come down and scalp your men?''
``I'd go for Hamilton,'' I answered.
``By God!'' exclaimed Clark, striking Mr. Boone on the knee, ``that's what I'd do.''
CHAPTER XI
FRAGMENTARY
Mr. Boone's visit lasted but a day. I was a great deal with Colonel Clark in the few weeks that followed before his departure for Virginia. He held himself a little aloof (as a leader should) from the captains in the station, without seeming to offend them. But he had a fancy for James Ray and for me, and he often took me into the woods with him by day, and talked with me of an evening.
``I'm going away to Virginia, Davy,'' he said; ``will you not go with me? We'll see Williamsburg, and come back in the spring, and I'll have you a little rifle made.''
My look must have been wistful.
``I can't leave Polly Ann and Tom,'' I answered.
``Well,'' he said, ``I like that. Faith to your friends is a big equipment for life.''
``But why are you going?'' I asked.
``Because I love Kentucky best of all things in the world,'' he answered, smiling.
``And what are you going to do?'' I insisted.
``Ah,'' he said, ``that I can't tell even to you.''
``To catch Hamilton?'' I ventured at random.
He looked at me queerly.
``Would you go along, Davy?'' said he, laughing